The House of the Rising Dead
by The Green Witch
Summary: Dean deals with the voodoo thing in New Orleans and a mysterious assassin who can't be stopped. Pre-Series.


_New Orleans, Louisiana. _

The smiling old woman wrapped the thick collection of yellow, pink and red flowers in paper, keeping an eye on the young man over her shoulder as she did so, some long dead singer crooning on the radio to old-time jazz. "You sure you want to do this alone Emil?" she asked, her eyes worried over her apple cheeks. "It wasn't your fault what happened…." The young man looked up from his scruffy boots for the first time, peering at the dumpy old woman through the curtains of his lanky hair.

"Yes it was, Mrs. Appleby," he said simply, the old florist offering a sympathetic smile over the counter as he stuck his hands further into his pockets. "D-do you think she'd like them?" `_Well I'm goin' to New Orleans….'_

"Take it from me hon," Mrs. Appleby said strolling into the back room to get a length of ribbon, her voice drifting through the doorway as Emil eyed the black and white photo's on the wall without really seeing them, "all girls like flowers from her sweetheart. Although," she added, coming out with a single dark red rose in her hands, "roses always worked the best. A rose for Emil." He took it from her as she tied the ribbon around the bouquet, wincing slightly as one of the thorns cut into the ball of his thumb. "Oh no, sweetheart, here," she cried, passing over an embroidered handkerchief. "I'm so sorry dear."

"I'm fine," Emil assured her, pressing the handkerchief against his thumb. "Just a scratch, Mrs. A, really. Uh nice music, by the way." Mrs. Appleby tutted, trying to hide a smile. `_When I see the Mardi Gras, I wana know what carnival's for….'_

"I know dear, but you've been through so much recently, and now I've gone and done this."

"Yeah, well, life," Emil muttered, his jaw tight as he tossed the bloodstained handkerchief back over the counter and snatching up the flowers. Yellow primrose and bird's-foot-trefoil, pink lobelias and carnations: the sweet scent was almost overpowering sticky. "What do I owe you?"

"Oh, _hon_, it's free of charge," Mrs. Appleby said, plucking the rose off the counter where the young man had dropped it, slipping it into the center of the bouquet, before reaching up to pat his check over his mumbled protests. "But you have to promise to take care now. Be back home before sunset, especially with all these disappearances. Your dear old mother's got to have someone to look after her after-."

"I-I understand," he said holding up a hand. "Thanks but-."

"We've had far too much death here," the little old lady continued firmly. "Everybody's lost someone, Emil. So don't you go shutting yourself out-you hear? Getting yourself hurt. If there's one thing I don't hold with, it's being selfish.

"Guess that's what I'm good at." Emil muttered.

"Now don't you go believing' what that lot is telling you." The old lady held up a warning finger. Emil nodded closing his mouth. "It wasn't your fault. Now say it back to me."

"It … wasn't my fault." he whispered.

"Good," Mrs. Appleby said. "Now you try an' believe that young man." Emil nodded slowly, squaring his skinny shoulders, muttering a small thank you.

"I promise Mrs. Appleby."

The old woman smiled. "That's all I ask." The bell chimed as a giggling couple walked in, Emil skirting around them into the warm, buttery afternoon sunlight "Now what can I do for you dears?" _`When I get to New Orleans, I wanna see the Zulu King.'_

Long after sunset, Emil stumbled into the unlit room, the last remaining beer bottle dropping from his fingers and rolling away under one of the dark red moth-eaten seats. Another, half empty and soon to be finished, occupied the other hand. He took a swig, collapsing into one of the last chairs before the stage. The theatre had long been out of business - kids in the neighbourhood would often dare each other to go in. Once in a while someone would talk about restoring it or bulldozing it entirely but never loudly and never for long. The streets were still bustling outside, but somewhere in the darkness, something moved.  
Emil caught up in drinking and moaning at the empty stage didn't notice as he tipped the final drops down his throat and tossed the bottle behind him. There was the dull thud of it hitting flesh. Emil turned, saw what was coming and jerked to his feet, mouth opening wide to scream.  
He never got the chance, but the teenagers who found him, neck snapped at an almost clean 90-degrees, took a long while to stop.

* * *

3 days, 60 hours and 2170 miles since leaving Nebraska, Dean Winchester was finally nearing New Orleans. '_Ridin' down the highway, Goin' to a show...'  
_He was only half paying attention to the road, emptier then it had been three years ago, thinking back to the motel room three nights previous. '_Stop in all the byways, Playin' rock 'n' roll...'_

"Where have you been?" John Winchester had demanded without looking up from his journal.

Dean, who'd been getting food from the pretty checkout girl who could do bird noises, maybe/defiantly getting her number as well, lifted up a plastic bag in defense. The television was playing the same grainy back and white film it had for the past week or so, the hunter in a big dark coat walking through a shipyard full of giant metal containers.  
"You've been watching that footage for days Dad. Gonna tell me why it's so important?" he'd asked with a quickly fading smile as he fished out a bag of peanut M&Ms. John hadn't answered, so Dean had watched as the hunter on the screen stopped in the centre of a crossroad of metal shipping containers, caught between four different paths - two to either side, one in front and one behind, each blocked by two figures each. Out of the eight, three were woman, but all were middle-aged, and all were baring their teeth and snarling.  
"Y'know I never get tired of watching this guy cleaving through monsters," Dean had said, grinning as he shoveled a handful of M&Ms into his mouth, the monsters rushing in only for the fastest to get his head lopped off in one clean blow to the neck. The hunter let the momentum pull his sword around and down to slice open the stomach of the heavy-set redneck who'd tried to creep up from behind. "You ever come across this guy?"

"No one has," John had said, actually looking up this time. "Jim thinks he's the Bás Rócas." Dean snorted.

"You mean the story Caleb was talking about last year?" he had asked, glancing back at the screen, where the apparent 'Bás Rócas' had his sword embedded in the back of the final ghoul, right through the heart. "The Bás Rócas is a myth, Dad. Probably just a normal hunter, taking a leaf out of the Bat's book. A little fear and mystery to make the dumb ones run scared. Y'know, '_It's time for my enemies to share my dread'_ '_theatricality and deception are powerful weapons'_ sort of thing."

"I'm not interested in the _myth_ Dean," John had snapped as he'd gotten to his feet. "Whoever he is, if he's _half_ as good as the stories say, he might know something about it." There was no need to ask what it was; it had been the same thing for almost as long as Dean could remember.

"Yes sir."

"I think there's a job down in New Orleans," John had continued tossing a newspaper to his son.

"A drunk broke his neck at a run down old theater," Dean had noticed, dropping it on his bed. "Something that makes this stand out?"

"The death count to 13 mysterious deaths, not including disappearances since Katrina. All around the same theatre."

"Vengeful spirit?" he'd suggested.

"Maybe." John had frowned at the general direction of his son. "I want you to head down there first thing tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." Dean had said, glancing at his father out of the corner of his eyes.

"20 men have gone missing outside a place called Jericho." John had continued as if Dean hadn't said anything, scooping up his keys. "All on the same stretch of road. I'm going to go dig around."

"Now?" Dean had asked, looking out at the setting sun. John nodded, slipping the video out of the VCR.

"I want us both to make good time," John had told him as he gave him the video. "I had a copy made. I want you to keep an eye out for this guy. You understand?" Dean had nodded, a smile plastered on his face and everything, and John clapped his son on the shoulder before stepping out into the night. "Call me when it's done. Good luck Dean."

The chorus pulled him back to the present. _It's a long way to the top if you wanna rock 'n' roll...' _

The Bás Rócas: a hunter that could kill the average werewolf like swatting a fly. The way Caleb had told it, the Bás Rócas had been hand-picked by Batman or something, then trained to Terminator perfection. He would track down his charge; ignoring anything else in pursuit, and when he found them, he'd kill them. Stab through the heart, so the stories went, even if he's supposed killings ranged from beheading to disembowelment. Then the Bás Rócas would just disappear, never to be seen again, until he was given another charge.  
Dean snorted. "Impossible," he muttered under his breath. The Bás Rócas was a story, something hunters told stories about round a campfire, to try to give each other some new nightmares, the most common one said he was the reason Jack the Ripper had disappeared, stabbed through the heart and dumped in the Thames_.  
_

* * *

_The nightmare was an old one: the man with the rotting insides and decomposing skin was coming down the corridor as she tried to crawl away slowly bleeding out of the gaping hole in her thigh, leaving a trail of dark red blood in her wake. The walls, damp and dripping, made any attempt to stand futile, A door into a darken room was open, and in she crawled, ignoring the electric shocks being sent through her system as she inched forward, progressively weaker and the blood stained killer slowly closing the gap between them.  
__In the dream, when she felt the hand, cold and leathery and stained with centuries old blood, close in on her ankle, the sword didn't come loose from its stone like sheath. Instead, her hand, slick with the blood of both others and herself, slipped from the leather grip, and she was dragged out of the shadows and flipped over. She struggled to sit, to get to her feet, something, anything, and the Ripper shoved the blade though her chest._

Beatrice McFerguson woke with the dying gasp on her lips. The car, stolen, naturally, smelt faintly of some woman's perfume - roses and tear gas by the strength.  
Paris had led to nowhere but an empty grave.  
_It's full _now_ of course_, she thought, thrusting last night's nightmare with the others she had to relive when she closed her eyes. Parisians had been far more hospitable than she'd been told, but even their police would complain if they found a giant wolf on their fancy bridge. All three different set of police. Beatrice drummed her fingers against the stolen car's steering wheel, frowning. New Orleans was the best choice for a lead now, but risking another little disappearance would have her dragged in front of the Council. Again.  
She turned onto the freeway, flattening the accelerator against the floor and cutting off a middle-aged couple from Ohio that had spent the flight complaining loudly about the apparent sexual orientation of the stewards.  
Her cellphone rang shrilly, Greystone's voice coming out tinny and possibly even more irritating. '_Agent 0003, you are ordered to pick up.' _ Beatrice groaned as she pulled over to the side of the highway. _Tóin_ she though, flicking the phone open and holding it against her ear.

"What?"

"You were reported to have gone off the grid for a period of four days," Agent 0002 informed her.

"Was I?" Beatrice asked.

"You didn't pick up when you were called to inform us of this." Greystone bulldozed over the sarcasm as he always did.

"I was in the middle of something," Beatrice said, pinching the bridge of her nose. She had, in fact, been in the middle of an empty grave, but there was no need to go into details.

"You must check in every week, or else you'll be put under inquiry. Again." Greystone's tone made it clear that he wouldn't mind that eventuality.

"My apologies Agent Greystone. My phone was stolen by a giant tattooed man." It was physically impossible for her voice to get any flatter than it already was. "I thought it best to retrieve MI13 property." She could feel him smirk over the line.

"Ensure that such foolishness won't happen again." She gave a tetchy assent, blowing a lock of dark hair out of her face. "I have been authorized to give you your new assignments."

"Congratulations." Greystone's irritation was made clear by the pointed silence. Beatrice couldn't find it with in herself to care. "Where am I headed?"

"Louisiana." The state was given curtly; he wanted her to beg for the city. She normally would have been annoyed if she hadn't been so surprised. _I'm not that lucky_, she thought. _I'm _never_ that lucky. __Agent 0001 might disagree with you on that one, _a little voice said slyly.

"New Orleans?" she suggested, shoving the voice away in the dark corner that all the nightmares and other little voices went.

"Yes." Greystone's suspicion was evident and Beatrice cursed herself slightingly. The nightmares had removed the chance for any real rest on the flight back, not that it was any excuse for such a slip. There was a brain underneath all the protocol, blind obedience and resentment. If he even guessed what she'd done... "Have you already spoken to Agent Witchhazel?"  
_So much for being authorized. That _voice sounded like Llew. She took a moment to dwell on the irony of Llew's mind-voice not being able to quit, unlike the real one.

"As much as I would have preferred that, no. Where else would I be going?" Beatrice said, and because Greystone would never have left it at that she continued, "You know considerably less well than I do that supernatural creatures and the like come in floods when there are calamities. Hurricanes, mass murders, tornados, etcetera, etcetera." She could hear Greystone grinding his teeth on the other end of the line. How he hated to be reminded of almost failing the theory component.

"There are several matters which acquire your particular attention," he continued as if nothing had happened. "The files have been sent to a Midtown Motel, on Tulane Avenue."

"Yes _sir_," Beatrice muttered, softly so Greystone wouldn't hear.

"The room's been paid for in advance - you have till the end of the month to deal with your assignments." _Three weeks to clear out New Orleans_. _Just in time for Samhainn. _

"Duly noted, Agent Greystone. Might I be on my way?"

"In hurry?" He leapt on the possible breach in protocol in an instant, like a politician on a technicality.

"Yes, I'm meeting my fiancée," Beatrice said, a slight sarcastic edge to the words. "Americans are almost as paranoid as provocateurs: they find it suspicious when a mysterious figure in a stolen car is seen standing still for fifteen minutes. Why do you think I'm in a hurry?"

_Particularly as I've a sword in the passenger seat_, she thought glancing at were Answerer lay within easy reach. Greystone's abrupt assent was punctuated with a disgusted snort at such levity on the job and the click as he hung up.  
_Never been one for a touching goodbye_, Beatrice thought as she tossed the cell phone in the back seat, where it landed lightly on the heavy black coat that was covering most of the back seat. It probably wasn't healthy that the two most important things in her life was a sword and an 19th century overcoat, but that was life.  
_Since when was mental health important when you kill things for a living_? A wry smirk twisting her lips for a moment, before she lent forward and flicked the radio on. The guitar solo ripped its way through the silence for a second before Beatrice switched it off again with an irritated sign.  
_I _hate_ rock and roll_, she thought, exhaling sharply her nose as she turned back onto the road.

* * *

The motel was weirdly okay for the price range but hey, Dean wasn't complaining. The teenager behind the counter was droning out a list of places to eat and souvenir places and weird history stuff that Sammy would have loved if he'd been there. "Hey, you ever heard of the _De Le Fontaine_ _Theatre_?" The teenager scoffed.

"You mean the place where the idiot broke his neck a week ago? Yeah. It was shut down in like the 20th century or something," he said, flicking his overly long fringe out of his face as he accepted the phony credit card. "My step-mom used to get dared to go in there by my mom. Not that _she_ remembers that." he added handing over the room key. Dean nodded and left the building, walking right into a pretty woman in a long black coat who was muttering under her breath in a strange language as he did so.  
They stumbled together for a moment, her hands automatically catching hold of his shoulders and jacket collar, while Dean's own hands wrapped around her upper arms in an effort not to send them both tumbling to the ground. She stepped away quickly the moment their balance was regained, a scowl flickering over her features as she folded her arms over her chest. Her dark hair was braided simply over one shoulder, her coat, which was a size of two to big, was buttoned up to her chin and there was an irritated look in her hazel eyes.

"_Gabhaibh mo leisgeul_?" she said gesturing for Dean to move aside. Dean put on his most charming smile and gave her a once over; partly to make sure she wasn't armed. "Excuse me," she offered in English, the accent fainter than before.

"Wow, Scottish Gaelic yeah?" he said as he stepped to one side. She glanced at him over her shoulder, surprised, one hand on the door handle, her body turned slightly away from him.

"Yes," she said eventually, eyebrow arched. Dean nodded, and smiled again.

"Sorry 'bout that. I'm Dean Fogerty," he said, offering his hand. Her mouth twisted in what might have been a smile if it hadn't disappeared so fast.

"Carmen Cooper" she said politely, clasping his hand with her own.

"Shame it's not Alice," Dean said catching sight of a small black tattoo, along the inside of her wrist. Carmen gave another smile, this one lasting longer.

"I've heard that one before," she said, burying her hands in her pockets. Dean grinned shrugging.

"What brings someone like you to New Orleans? Not American," he added after she raised an eyebrow. "Not a good holiday spot anymore."

"Business trip," Carmen said, shortly. "Charity stuff."

"Really?" That earned him another eyebrow.

"Are you saying I don't look charitable?" Carmen asked flatly. Dean snorted.

"Nah. But charities are pretty posh, and they put you up in a cheep motel?"

"Struggling hospitals. Volunteer nursing isn't exactly well paid," Carmen said, shrugging as she glanced at her watch. Dean caught another glimpse of the tattoo, a Celtic looking pair of folded wings. Carmen muttered something that sounded rude under her breath in Gaelic. "I need to get started on work," she said looking up, giving a brief bright smile as she gestured vaguely at the motel. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Fogerty" she added as she started walk away backward.

"Dean," he called after her as she turned and dashed inside the motel, the door closing behind her before he could be sure she'd heard. He frowned as he walked back to the Impala, waiting a moment to make sure she wasn't going to come back out before pulling the boot open. Something wasn't right about the pretty mysterious Scot; hell most pretty, mysterious girls turned out to be monsters in need of ganking.  
He called Bobby when he arrived back at the room, the cell phone jammed between his ear and shoulder as he unpacked. "_Okay, I got the scan. You sure you've done it right_?"

"'Course, I got two good looks. That the tat."

"_It's Celtic, maybe with some Pictish. There's some leaves designed in as well. They all translate to ogham script. You got a pen ready?"_

"Shoot." Dean said, pulling a pen out of his mouth and pressing the tip to the motel's notepaper.

"_Ail, twice. Beith. Saille, twice again. Ruis. Onn. Coll."_

"Got it. Thanks Bobby."

"No problem, _idjit_. Your dad there?"

"He's in the truck," Dean lied; remembering the last time John Winchester and Bobby Singer were face to face. Judging by Bobby's grunt he had only half convinced him.

"Take care of yourself, kid."

"Sure thing." Dean hung up, staring at the row of words, switching the words around "Saille, Onn, Beith?" That didn't sound right. He tried again, and again and again, until scribbling Beith, Ailm and Saille next to each other. "_Beith. Ailm. Saille,"_ he muttered. "B.A.S, bas-." He blinked at the paper, filling out the remanding words and scratching out all but the first letter, until they spelt out B-A-S R-O-C-A-S. Bás Rócas. "Hell, no. That's not possible." He dived for the video, poking out of his duffel, shoving it into the VCR and stabbing the play button with his finger.  
The grainy footage started where John Winchester had stopped it in Nebraska, with the Bás Rócas surrounded by corpses, sword dripping red. Knowing what he knew now, it was easy to see that it was a woman not a man, and in the moment before Carmen Cooper ran back the way she'd come, the camera got a clear shot of the tattoo along the inside of her wrist.

* * *

_The drug was throwing her off, causing the already shadowy room to distort and blur faintly and the edges of her vision as she fought to stay awake. The room, motivation enough to keep her eyes open, was filled with the stench of the decomposing bodies, random limbs and innards strewn across the floor, piling up around the corers, as if the butchers had simple kicked the unwanted bones, limbs and chucks of flesh to the side. Her torch threw dancing shadows along the walls, making the skulls grin, whether or not they still had bits of skin or muscle attached to white bone. The next room was where the organs had gone; hearts pickling in jars, lungs being dried and crushed into dust. Brains pulled apart into chucks, intestines dangling across the ceiling. A single live, fresh, moist and uncut lying on a bench, secreted in between long strips, which appeared to be skin. A rat scurried between her legs, a suspicious looking length of pink coloured flesh tuck between its jaws. She darted back, a shaking smile flickering across her face as she turned back. The cleaver was missing.  
__In the dream, she didn't get Answerer up in time and one of Pengli's foot soldiers drove a blade almost as long as her thigh through her chest._

The stack of files that greeted the waking Beatrice was as thick as her middle finger was long. She gave an irritated sigh, rubbing her hand over her eyes. She'd fallen asleep on the file on the Axeman of New Orleans, on the page detailing the letter to the press. According to MI13's theory, it had, in fact, been a monster, much like Springheel Jack and very much unlike the other Jack, which was the only reason she was here, instead of being set to the Sahara or Florida, some place horrible even by their psychotic standards. The clock, good quality, but generic, like the rest of the hotel room, ticked over to 3:37 as she glanced over the letter once again. Dated Hell March 13th 1919 it read:

_Esteemed Mortal,  
__They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a fell demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.  
__When I see fit, I shall come again and claim other victims. I alone know who they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with the blood and brains of him whom I have sent below to keep me company.  
__If you wish you may tell the police not to rile me. Of course I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigation in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to amuse not only me but His Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc. But tell them to beware. Let them not try to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman. I don't think there is any need of such a warning, for I feel sure the police will always dodge me, as they have in the past. They are wise and know how to keep away from all harm.  
__Undoubtedly, you Orleanians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to. If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night. At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship to the Angel of Death.  
__Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to visit New Orleans again. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a proposition to you people. Here it is:  
__I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have mentioned. If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you people. One thing is certain and that is that some of those people who do not jazz it on Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe.  
__Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and as it is about time that I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse. Hoping that thou wilt publish this, and that it may go well with thee,  
I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fantasy.  
__The Axeman_

The archaic language and reference to Tartarus did hint at the Spring Healed Jack possibility, however the sentence about the Axeman being 'in close relationship with the Angel of Death' was pushing the boundaries of probability. Beatrice's stomach rumbled as she turned the page, her mouth a bitter twist at the idea of probability in a world where the god of war had died on a mortal's sword. As that was a nightmare for a different night, she focused on the evidence in front of her. Two pictures of the same theatre, one showing it pristine in black and white, the other, decrepit and in colour, stood out. The small handwritten words of the back read the _De La Fontatine Theatre_, 1901 and the _Del La Fontatine Theatre_ 2001. According to the information at given by the analysts, it was the scene for three murders over the past century that fit the Axeman's pattern, ten others that didn't. She glanced at Answerer, lying in its sheath on the desk, and back at the stack of files she still had to review. _Read and then burn_, she thought. Those were the rules, ones that had been drilled into every agent, triple zero or not, but on the other hand, the theatre in the morning would be surrounded by pedestrians and green-eyed men from Kansas.  
Beatrice scowled at herself in the mirror, before jolting to her feet, buckling the scabbard onto her belt and slipping the coat over her shoulders, feeling the will settle onto her shoulders. Two size to big, even now, it hid the weapon perfectly, even without the charm attached to her belt that made most people forget she was ever there. She'd been able to wear it without in dragging for almost six years now, although she'd been desperate to try ever since she'd pulled it from the Ripper's back in an attempt to stop his harvest. It even covered the mark she'd been given that night, so long ago. Beatrice glanced down at the closed black wings, the ogham leaves easy to spot now. She'd spent years with the damn thing. _Thirteen soon, _she thought with a mirthless smile_. _  
Thirteen years since the escape, since the massacre, thirteen years since her twelfth birthday, thirteen years since she'd stabbed Jack the Ripper through the heart.

* * *

The theatre was just generally creepy. Dean scowled at a cobweb that stretched almost all the way across the corridor, pulling it down with his flashlight, squashing the spider underneath his boot heel. "Go to New Orleans, It'll be fun," he muttered kicking open a side door and sticking his head inside it. It was a dressing room. "If I run into the Phantom of the opera I swear I'm ganking him."

The teenagers he'd spoken to had said that Emil Richardson had been found on the ground floor, his neck broken. "'Cause, like, he jump from the _balcony_ thing, dude," Dean said sarcastically. None of the teens had seemed very upset about it, most had thought he'd had it coming. From what the they'd told him he'd been included to agree. Lydia, her frizzy brown hair pulled into pigtails, had assured him that Emil hadn't been as bad as the rest had said. 'Moody sure, but he didn't deserve what they're all saying' were her words. Dean wasn't sure how Emil didn't deserve it, letting his older sister go in the floods, but she'd insisted, even up to showing him the hole in the fence everyone used to sneak in.  
Humming Iron Maiden under his breath, Dean went further in, tugging his EMF reader out in front of him, slipping the earphones into his ears as he held the flashlight between his teeth. By the time he'd searched the balcony Emil was said to have dropped from, he was picking up small amount of EMF, which was either a sign to call the ghostbusters or that a minor electrical current was close by. He stepped near to a thick gash in the wall that looked like it had been stuck with an axe. He held the ex-walkman out and grinned as the all the lights flared up red. "Yahtzee." He glanced down at the stage, looking around for anymore axe marks and caught sight of a now familiar slim figure in a long black coat, standing stock still on the stage as if she was listening for something. "_Shit_," he muttered, ducking behind the barrier. He waited, counting down slowly as a cold blue light appeared across the moth-eaten purple chairs in a matter of seconds. _She's quick at least, _Dean thought grudgingly. O_ne Mississippi, two Mississippi._ He went all the way to sixty Mississippi before getting to his feet. Sure enough, Carmen had gone, hopefully taking the stairs down to the basement. He went down the servant stairs just in case, keeping an eye out for any axe marks and debating whether or not the return later tonight. If she was who he thought she was, he didn't want to stick around to get ganked himself . Putting that firmly out of his mind, Dean turned a corner only to have a huge black bird fly out at him. He leapt out of the way with a shout of surprise, tugging the EMF speakers out of his ears as he glared after the crow. "Son of a bitch," he muttered.

"I think that's a different animal," a woman said behind him. Dean leapt around; Carmen, if that was even her name, was standing there, arms folded, hazel eyes squinting against the beam from his flashlight.

"Carmen," he said, pointing it at the floor. "Wow, uh , what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," she pointed out. "A man was murdered here a week or so ago." Dean nodded, even though she'd said murdered not died.

"Yeah it sucks. His sister died in Katrina, apparently." He shrugged trying to appear nonchalant. "A friend of mine, Bas. He went missing last year, and his girlfriend, Gen, wanted to come check it out, y'know, put down flowers or something. She had school and stuff, so I said that I'd do it." He grinned, and she gave a small smile in return.

"I could check charity databases if you want," she offered taking a step forward. _She moves like a hunter_, Dean noticed as she glanced at the hole the crow had flown out of. "What was his name?"

"Rócas," he said, his mouth opening without direction from his brain. "Sebastian Rócas."

Her shoulders stiffened for a second. "Rócas," she repeated carefully unfolding her arms, her eyes still on the crow's nest. Dean nodded.

"Sebastian. Bás. Rócas." He rolled the 'r' and she looked up at him, hazel eyes illuminated by the flashlight and cold. He would have normally said they were hunter eyes, but in this case there was something else, something darker. "Your name isn't Carmen," he said, his tone light and normal.

"No," she agreed, drawing her hands out of her pocket. Dean's eyes followed the right as Not-Carmen tossed the small sliver flashlight at him, the blue light blinding as it spun. Dean swiped it out of the air, blinking rapidly, and felt a hand close around the collar of his leather jacket. The Bás Rócas stared at him over the razor shape edge of her sword. "I suggest not trying anything."

"Y'know, normally when I'm this close to a pretty girl we both have something else in mind," Dean said. The Bás Rócas arched an eyebrow and he grinned, catching hold of her right hand and twisted it away sharply. She ducked under his arm, pulling her wrist free and her sword away from his throat. Dean leapt away before she could finish the manoeuvre and end up behind him. She followed quickly, swinging it down as he pulled out his gun. The tip sliced open the back of his hand and Dean bit back a grunt of pain, the semi automatic falling to the floor.

"How did you find me?" The Bás Rócas asked evenly, levelling the sword at his neck as she kicked the Colt .45 through the bannister and down onto the first floor. Dean watched it go with a wince.

"It that's broken I'm not going to held responsible," he tip of her sword prickled as she pressed it against his chest.

"I'm not going to ask you again."

"If you're famous you're going to have fans," he said with a grin. Not Carmen narrowed her eyes at him, opening her mouth as his hand closed around something long and thin. He brought it round, knocking her sword back. She let hang by her side and she arched a disbelieving eyebrow at the weapon in his hand, her mouth twitching slightly.

"A broom handle?" she said, eyeing the length of wood. Dean shrugged.

"If you want to trade," he suggested, swinging it at her head. She stepped to the side, shearing it neatly in half. The two useless pieces clattering to the floor as Dean tackled her to the ground, forcing her hand open. The sword flying from her hand and down the stairs. She threw her weight forward so she was pining him to the ground and punched him square in the face. Dean caught her other hand and swung them round again. He tried to press is forearm against her throat and she batted his hand away. They rolled down the corridor, grappling with each other, until one of Not-Carmen's elbows jabs tipped them both down the stairs. Instinctively Dean's drew her closer, wrapping his arms around her as she caught hold of his jacket and twisted. Dean didn't realise what the hell she was trying to do until he caught sight of the set of rusty iron nails sticking up out of an upturned floorboard, just before they hit the landing with a thud. The impact broke them apart, Dean being sent head first into the wall.  
"Son of a _bitch_," he muttered, pushing himself up onto his knees, a hand to his head. He heard Not-Carmen let out a small gasp of pain and he turned his head towards her automatically.  
She was sitting up, a small circle hole in her dark hands surrounded by a think patch of what looked like blood. She threw a red piped nail away, a pained look flickering across her face as she prodded at the cut. She'd pulled her coat open to get to the wound and he caught sight of a pale silver scar running along her collar-bone before disappearing under her muted red shirt. It main him feel strangely guilty, even she'd attacked him first. Dean shifted over as close as he dared, pushing himself onto the balls of his feet as she lent back with her eyes closed, muttering under her breath in Gaelic.  
"D'you?" he began, holding out his hand. Her eyes snapped open, her hand snapping out catching his own in a vise like grip, flipping him head over heals. Her good leg snapped out and Dean went down the Second flight of stairs, landing heavily on the first floor.  
"Last time I try to be nice," he muttered, getting to his feet with a groan. A glint of moonlight on metal caught his eye and he turned his head to see his nickel-plated.45. He moved to it as quickly as his bruised body and the little fact of the psyco assassin at the top of the stairs let him. By the time it was in his hand, the Bás Rócas was on her feet, sword in hand. Her back was to him, but he pointed the gun at her anyway as he walked back up the stairs, finger on the trigger. One of the boards cracked under his feet and she turned sword at the ready. Super hunter or not, she was keeping weight of her injured leg. Dean could see a strange charm hanging off her belt made up of ancient-looking beads and coins, something Sammy would know about.

"That's not going to work," she said, nodded towards his gun. Dean arched a challenging eyebrow and she held up his magazine in response, raising her own eyebrows with a smirk. He chuckled.

"It's a semi," he pointed out. The Bás Rócas shrugged her shoulders.

"You have a shot," she said.

"Who says I need more than one," Dean said keeping nine steps between them. _She might be Kill Bill with Green Destiny, but that only works close range, _he thought_. _

"I speak from experience," she replied dryly as she pointed the sword at him. "It's going to take more than one round to stop me. Can you say the same without a head?"

"Lister Black Mamba, I'm not trying to kill you," he began.

"So that's you reason for incompetence," she cut in, flatly unimpressed. Police sirens echoed from somewhere close by. Dean glanced over his shoulder, to make sure no one was going to come bursting through the front door. When he looked back, barely a moment later, the Bás Rócas had closed the gap between them. She caught hold of his wrist and twisted, pulling the Colt .45 from his grip as she turned, driving an elbow into his stomach. She cracked the hilt of her sword against the side of his head and Dean stumbled in pain, his vision foggy. He felt someone catch him before he could fall onto his face and lower him onto his knees. "Eyes open," Not Carmen snapped slapping his face lightly. Dean groaned, forcing his eyes open.

"Bite me," he muttered as she cupped his check with her hand, gentle for a moment before she yanked his mouth open. She shoved a bitter taste pill into his mouth and forced his jaw shut before he could spit it out.

"Swallow," Not-Carmen hissed. Dean glared at her and did nothing. She squared her jaw and clapped a hand over his mouth, pinching his nose shut. "Do it or I will suffocate you." Dean held on for at least three minutes as the sirens drew closer before swallowing. Not-Carmen pulled away instantly, seizing his jacket collar and dragging him to his feet. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

"Whawazat?" he managed, lifting his head to look at the woman dragging him up the stairs. She ignored him, dragging him into a corridor as red and blue lights filed the street outside.

_Dad's going to be so please, _Dean thought as he started to pass out. _I wonder if he'll tell Sammy. _


End file.
